


We Have Got to Coordinate

by apliddell



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-17
Updated: 2014-10-17
Packaged: 2018-02-21 11:46:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2467130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apliddell/pseuds/apliddell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock has a secret; John solves a mystery.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We Have Got to Coordinate

When I came downstairs in the morning, Sherlock was much where and as I'd left him the night before. Stretched out on the sofa in his pyjamas, looking up at the ceiling, a magazine splayed on his chest and his hands clasped under it on his belly. I thought he was asleep at first, but as soon as I stepped into the sitting room, he greeted me. Sort of.

"Coffee?"

I snorted. "Good morning to you, too."

Sherlock flicked a dismissive hand at me, "Implied," he said.

"Breakfast?"

"Coffee," he lifted the magazine and disappeared behind it. I went off to the kitchen to put the coffee on and made extra toast anyway. I brought Sherlock his share of the toast and coffee on my way out, but he ignored me, so I set it on the coffee table.

"Well I'm off." He hummed from behind his magazine in acknowledgement, though I was fairly sure he'd no idea what I was actually saying.

He was still lying there when I got home from work ten hours later. One of Mrs Hudson's teacups sat next to the mug of coffee I'd left for him and the pile of cold toast, along with a pristine sandwich and a banana. There was a newspaper lying flat on his chest, but he lifted it as I entered, hiding his face again. I frowned. Not a promising tableau.

"Hey," I said. Sherlock rustled his newspaper at me as if to hush me. "You okay?"

"Never better," he answered from behind his newspaper.

"We haven't got a case on," I said.

"Well spotted," Sherlock answered. "You should be a detective." I bent and pushed his feet off the sofa so that I could sit down. Sherlock lowered the newspaper to glare at me.

I ignored that. "When did you last eat?"

Sherlock shrugged, "What day is it?"

"You don't remember?"

"I never remember," Sherlock started to raise the newspaper again, but I put my hand on it.

"Are you ill?"

"No." I'm starting to pick up on when he's fibbing. Little twitch of the mouth.

"Did you notice your hands are shaking?" Sherlock dropped the newspaper on the floor by the sofa and tucked both hands into his armpits with a scowl. "Sherlock, what do you think this conversation is about?"

His scowl deepened. "Don't patronise, John."

"Actually, you're the one being patronising. I'm trying to help you, and you're pretending I'm useless. Head back, please. Against the arm of the sofa." He obeyed automatically.

People tend to, when addressed by Dr John H Watson. I switched on the lamp by the arm to check his pupils. Slow dilation, just as I expected. "Give me your hand."

"John, this is so sudden. I never knew you cared."

Through my teeth, I answered, "Shut up, clever clogs. I need to take your pulse."

Sherlock held out his hand and let me extend his arm. "I'm not using," he said hastily, as I found his pulse at his wrist. "I'm clean." I nodded. "Do you believe me, John?"

"I believe you. You're not sleeping, are you?" Sherlock shook his head. "That's why you can't eat. Hypersensitive gag reflex is a side effect of sleep deprivation. Sound about right?" He nodded. "Okay, we need to get some food in you. Then we'll look into the sleep thing. Okay?" I waited for a reply.

Sherlock shrugged. "All right."

I popped up and got him a glass of milk. "Slowly," I said when I handed it to him. I waited until he tipped the glass to his mouth, then went back to the kitchen to make him some porridge.

When I returned to the sitting room with the bowl, he'd drunk half the milk, and he was sitting up. I sat down on the sofa and handed him the bowl.

"Thank you," he said.

"Of course. You take it with honey, right?" Sherlock nodded and took a bite of the porridge. I watched him swallow and take another bite, weighing my words in my mind before

I spoke again, "Erm. I. I probably should have." Sherlock looked up, his mouth full, and I looked down at my hands. "I wish I. Gah! I'm all thumbs. In the mouth. Tongue-tied! Ha." I glanced up at him, and he nodded encouragement. "I know how it feels to think that. You can't be helped. And. I don't want you to ever feel that way, all right? I will always help you." I looked up, and his eyes were fixed on me, his expression grave. "Okay? You don't have to. Keep things from me because you don't want to pull me in. I'm in, all right? Consider me in. Always. Okay?"

Sherlock nodded slowly. "Yes."

"You don't have to tell me what's keeping you up nights, if you don't want to. But. If you like, I can give you a sedative? Or." I shrugged. "Company, at least. And. Anything you want to tell me, you can. You can tell me, okay?" I nodded. "Right."

Sherlock took another bite of the porridge. And then another. "You had nightmares, didn't you?" he said after a long silence. "When you got back to England. From Afghanistan.

Dreams about the war?"

"Yeah, I did. Yeah. Dreams about the war. Are you having nightmares, Sherlock?"

“Yes,” he answered, just above a whisper. “Did you ever die in your dreams, John?”

I dropped my eyes, a cold spike of shame stabbing through my gut, “Yeah.” I made myself look at him. His eyes were on the bowl in his hands. “Do you die in yours?”

He nodded, like I knew he would. “She kills me,” he said. I had nothing to say to that. “I wanted to stop seeing it. For a bit.” Sherlock reached into the pocket of his pyjama bottoms and took out a blister pack of capsules. “It’s harder to stay awake, when I’ve not got a case on. I’ve been taking these. Caffeine pills.”

“I,” I paused when my voice rasped and cleared my throat. “I wish you wouldn’t.”

“Yes, they make me feel dreadful.” Sherlock shook the packet, “I’m giving them to you.”

“Oh.” I took them and pocketed them. “Thanks.”

He nodded. “You mentioned a sedative,” he continued, squaring his shoulders. He was thinking, I suppose, of what he’d have to see in his dreams once he did drop off.

“Yeah.” I cleared my throat again, “I’ve got melatonin upstairs. We. You can try something stronger, if that doesn’t work, but. I’d have to write you a prescription.”

“Whatever you think.”

I tried for a joke, for some reason, “Whatever I think? You really must be tired.”

Sherlock frowned. “I trust you.”

“Right, yeah. Of course. Sorry. Good. I’ll just.” I stood. “I’ll just go and get them then, shall I? Why don’t you have a shower and change? You’ve been wearing those for two days, and you’ll sleep better if you put something fresh on.” I turned and made for my bedroom, without waiting for him to reply. I quite needed a moment.

I came back down to the sitting room with a DVD and the bottle of melatonin a few minutes later. Sherlock was a bit damp around the hairline, wearing fresh pyjamas, and wrapped in his dressing gown. He perched in one corner of the sofa, hugging his knees. I shook one pill out into his palm and watched him wash it down with the last of the milk, before I went to put the DVD on. Sherlock made no remark until I was back on the sofa.

“Another Bond night?” he asked, punching his bee pillow before he stuffed it between himself and the sofa.

“Ah, no. Erm. I thought we might watch Star Wars. It was my favourite as a kid. Not sure if you’ve seen it.”

Sherlock glared at me for a long moment. “Have you been talking to Mycroft?”

I grinned back, “So you have seen it?”

“Yes, I developed what you might call a fixation at around age seven.” His eyes were already straying past me to the yellow text scrolling past on the screen.

“Ha, me too! I went and saw the re-release at the cinema with my dad. I was obsessed with Harrison Ford. Did you want to be Han Solo or Luke Skywalker?”

“Er,” Sherlock tucked his chin in and grinned. “Princess Leia.”

That surprised a little shout of laughter out of me. “Princess Leia? Really?”

“Well, she was the cleverest. She has all the best lines.”

“All the best insults, you mean.”

“Yes, of course.”

I cocked my head and squinted, holding my fists out on either side of Sherlock’s head. “I can sort of see you with that hairdo, now you mention it. I think it could work.”

Sherlock let out a giggle and shoved my arms away. We went quiet and watched Luke whinge at Uncle Owen about the Imperial Academy. “No lightsaber battles for you, then?” I said, after a bit.

“No, of course not.” Sherlock shook his head. “Blaster, all the way.”

“Exactly! Light sabers are, frankly, stupid. Blasters have got the range advantage, too. Quick and dirty, eh? Just get in and out, without all this silly flipping about and monologuing about destiny.”

Sherlock nodded emphatically. “I used to argue with Mycroft over this for ages. He told me I was jealous I’m not Force-sensitive. Git. I think mainly he enjoyed the notion of being a figurehead for a dodgy oligarchy. You know him. He’s such a romantic.” We both burst out laughing at that. I couldn’t stop until my stomach hurt.

Eventually the hilarity subsided into wheezy giggles, then into silence. “They might be a bit difficult to aim, blasters.” I looked over at Sherlock, when I missed his little hum of agreement. He was asleep, his head pillowed on his arm, a smile on his face.


End file.
